


mad girls and golden boys

by lovethybooty



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Angst, Awkward Friendship, Capitol Citizens, Capitol Party, F/M, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Not Actually That Sad, Panem, Party, Past Sexual Abuse, Pre-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Series, The Capitol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-20
Updated: 2016-03-20
Packaged: 2018-05-28 00:31:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6306643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovethybooty/pseuds/lovethybooty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But Finnick is a Big Boy (a Golden Boy), and he and his heart do not belong to Annie Cresta.</p><p>or</p><p>In which Annie has not seen Finnick in days and attends an interesting Capitol party alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	mad girls and golden boys

**Author's Note:**

> Wow- uhm, I actually wrote a lot this time? Okay, well, a lot by my standards. Typically when I say short story (and we all know I only write short stories), it's usually only 100-600 words. 
> 
> Don't really know what happened here, I got the idea for the awkward conversation between Annie and the Capitol Lady in the shower (ah, where all of my good ideas are born) and just started typing after. A few days of writing-with-every-spare-second later and here it is.
> 
> It might be a little messy in some parts, so apologies in advance.
> 
> Please leave a comment if you enjoy reading it, as they tend to put the BIGGEST smile on my face!
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

_So much for a party_.

Annie sits to the side of the lavishly decorated ballroom, head slowly turning to look out at the large dance floor. Sleek, stylish dresses of blues and purples and greens twirl in front of her, complemented by the subdued accent colors of the attendees’ freshly dyed skin. It's a Capitol party through and through.

And the music, she's decided, is entirely too loud. It changes often, going from sweet and fluttering melodies to crashing cymbals and banging drums. It's scary, not knowing exactly when the loud cacophony will begin; however, she's been sitting long enough that she thinks she might have figured out the alternating pattern.

Of course, she's wrong and unexpectedly hit with a loud, thunderous gong to her right. Skinny frame jolts upright, nearly out of her seat, and she looks around in panic- chest heaving, heart racing. Thankfully, no one is paying attention to the _Mad Girl,_ shoved off into a corner to entertain herself for the evening. Annie bows her head and sighs with something this side of relief as she mentally separates present and the past in her scattered brain, rose lips forming an unspoken _drum_ several time before her head rises again.

Upon mentally returning to the celebration, she is startled, noticing that something- nay, _someone_ \- is standing next to her. It’s a woman, donned in a shimmering blue ball gown, the skirt made to mimic the beautiful ebb and flow of the sea’s waves as she moves. This _is_ a party for District Four, after all. Annie looks up at her blankly, wracking her brain for a name. Words float through her mind, many of which are not names _(or family friendly)_ at all, and she soon becomes frustrated with herself for not being able to remember. She used to be **so good** at remembering.

It isn’t until the lady speaks that Annie’s glossy gaze is disrupted.

“I always have found such _inspiration_ from the natural beauty of District Four. However, I would **_never_** be caught dead on an actual beach. The sand- it’s so… dirty and unappealing. I’m not sure how you little fish do it,” she says, the sound of her refined, hoity-toity accent grating to Annie’s ears.

Annie laughs, quickly clamps her mouth shut. She knows the woman is being totally serious, but she simply can’t help herself.

_(mad girls are allowed to laugh whenever they want, right?)_

How funny- to love the beach but abhor the sand?

Images of home come flooding back to her- flashing snapshots of toes sinking into cool, brown sand, the gulls circling around her and Finnick as they sit perched on the rickety old dock. The silent serenity, she recalls, had been nice.

But Annie shakes her head and frowns. She is **not** at home, nor with Finnick. No. In fact, she has not seen or heard from Finnick in at least two days, but she can only assume that he, too, is hidden somewhere inside the President’s mansion tonight. Milling around aimlessly, waiting to be the luxurious prize of an onlooker’s affections.

 _(he’ll never be your finnick.)_  

She remembers that she is in the Capitol, and that the lady- most likely a very important one at that- is waiting for her to respond.  

Her eyes dart back to the _Lady in Blue_ , mouth fighting to form the words she wishes to spit out _(despite not knowing what it actually is she wants to say)_.

Eventually, Annie settles with a sad shrug, “I’m sorry…   _I don’t think I_ …  What is your name again?”

The Capitolite gives her a pathetic look, one of both disdain and utter pity. Annie frowns again.  

“Not to worry!” The Blue Lady exclaims, throwing her hands up in a dramatic display, only to bring them back to her chest with a neat clap. “I was just wondering if you had seen _Nick_ anywhere tonight. I’ve been searching for him for _ages."_ Her words are drawn out and slow, in way that suggests she is both demeaning and also just extravagant in her own right.

Annie blinks a few times before answering. “ _Nick?_ ”

She doesn't know a _Nick_.

“Don’t be _naive_ , darling. I’m talking about Finnick,” the older woman replies, one hand flying to rest at her hip. Annie gives her a confused stare.

 _(do people actually call him ‘nick’ in the capitol? )_  

She feels as though she might vomit- and it’s not because she drank anything from the small vials being passed around either.

“I- _I_ ,” she stammers, head shaking.

_(finnick. finn. nick? but where has he gone? off again to a stranger’s not-so-strange bed? and will the same fate await her too? it would not be the first time… last time...)_

Annie’s head stills, snapping upright.

“No- I’m sorry, I haven’t seen him,” she finally manages, straightening her back a bit as to not seem so frazzled.

“Well,” the lady sighs, pouting. “I’m afraid you’re of no use to me then. Enjoy your evening, Annie Cresta. This _is_ a party after all,” she says, grin mischievous and bordering on wicked, before quickly sauntering away, getting lost between the mixing colors that arm the dance floor.

Annie sits in confusion for a few moments, eyes trained on trembling hands as she focuses on one thing and one thing only.

_Why did that woman want to know where Finnick was?_

But then, after some head scratching and unscrambling, it clicks.

_Oh._

_That._

She sighs and shakes her head, tries to tell herself it isn’t so ( _she knows it is_ ).  

But Finnick is a big boy ( _a golden boy_ ), and he and his heart do not belong to Annie Cresta. Poor Mad Girls and Lucky Golden Boys just don’t mix. She knows this as well, though she does not always like to admit it, especially to herself. But if it were not true, he wouldn’t push her away, right? He wouldn’t shut her out, only to let her back in at his convenience, correct?

 _Yes_ , she decides. 

 _Right,_ she confirms.

Annie grabs a flute of something frothing and bubbly from a nearby, deserted table and takes a sip. And then a gulp. And soon the small glass is empty and Annie is slumped against the back of her stiff chair, shoulders hunched over slightly as arms reach around to cross at her chest.

She is being childish, _yes_ , but she still _is_ a child. She was always told that at age 18 you become an adult, but she knows this not to be true. Eighteen-year-olds still go into that damned arena every year, and only children are sent there to die.

Fuming. She realizes she is fuming. Such a stark difference the normally mild-tempered girl. Her anger festers in silence for a while, welling up inside before she is able to simmer down again. Annie spends the rest of the evening sitting alone, just like she and her prep team and everyone else who deals with District Four’s own _~~basket~~_ charity case had planned.

* * *

She stumbles off of the elevator and into District Four’s floor at the training center at half past one. Slightly tipsy, her exquisite and unbearably uncomfortable heels are slung over a bare shoulder. Too exhausted to make it to her designated room, she retires to the couch in the middle of the lobby.

Annie falls back against cool leather, body slamming into it with a soft thud. Her shoes drop to the floor and she winces as they hit grey linoleum with an audible _clang_. She prays for sleep- but, like usual, is met with unanswered prayers as she plays a riveting game of leap frog, jumping from one scenario to the next conclusion to the next event that replays in her mind.  

She does not shift until the elevator dings and the door slides open once again. Annie sits up straight, eyes darting to the clock on the wall ahead of her. It is now a quarter after two.  

And a more-than-slightly disheveled Finnick has staggered into the lobby, tousled hair flopping every which way. It reminds her of the Finnick she sees every day back home in Four, but she know that it is also very, very different.  

His back straightens when he sees her, and he already looks like a completely different person.

( _how many masks does he wear?_ )

Except- this one seems a bit confused. It’s as though this version of Finnick is lost somewhere within the transition between perfect and groomed Golden Boy and the goofball that likes to pretend he can talk to seagulls on the beach.

“Hey, Cresta,” he says, head cocked to the side, grin lopsided and silly. “What are you doing out here all alone? It’s late, you know.”

Annie nods and offers him a small, sad smile, “Couldn’t sleep. I guess I just didn’t party hard enough tonight.” She is trying ~~_failing_~~ to be funny. She will mentally kick herself later.  

“Well,” Finnick begins, that wide, sunshiney smile still plastered across his face. “I, _for one_ , am beat. Breakfast tomorrow with Mags?” Annie nods again, earning him the right to a triumphant and booming laugh. She won't comment on how displaced it seems. “Goodnight, Annie.”

“Good-” voice cuts off, pausing for a moment. She does not want him to go- not again. But she cannot ask him to stay, either. Sighing, she shakes her head and begins again, still sporting that same, sad excuse for a smile, “Goodnight, Finnick.”

With that, he is off into the dark hallway. She watches as he leaves, begins to nervously fidget with her hands once she's certain he's gone for good.

She tries and tries to understand him, but she fears she never will.  

 _So much for a party_.


End file.
